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A six o’clock tie. Four o’clock chair. And twelve o’clock cutlery. Time made Hank and Hank made time. That’s the relationship they shared. For each other and with each other. Hank could not stand someone sitting in a 10 20 position. And time did not appreciate when Hank would wear the hat in an 8 10 position. Needless to say they fell in respect with each other; love was late, so they weren’t particularly fond of it.

It was Thursday when Hank and time got themselves into a rather odd situation. Hank had a presentation to deliver by 4 pm, and he badly wanted time to be with him. But time had to be somewhere else. Time was running out. Hank tried to stop her; time tried to convince Hank she could not wait. She was gone. Hank sat there, motionless. Time on the other hand had just gone down for a walk. She wanted him to miss her, value her, not just look at her as a reminder. She did not want to ruin his presentation. With just a few seconds to four, she returned. But to her disbelief, Hank asked her to wait out as he busied himself on the phone.

The air went cold and silence stormed to all corners of the room. Time was glaring at Hank. Muttering tick tick tick under her pursed lips. Hank was not ready to apologize. To add insult to injury, he tilted his hat. “Let’s discuss this over dinner”, commanded time.

Sharp 9. A six o’clock tie. Four o’clock chair. And twelve o’clock cutlery. Steak was to be ordered. Time did not like being kept waiting, so she insisted on Rare. Hank on the other time wanted to make her wait, so she could understand his agony. He wanted it Well Done. Time stood still. She wanted to tell Hank, she waits for no man. And Hank did not like time dictating his life. They settled for a medium rare.

From this moment on, they both started dissecting the afternoon.

Hank getting into the meat of the argument, stated,“You always knew it was at 4. You’d known for days. How could you bail out on me”?

Time was getting heated up, ready to grill Hank into submission. “You take me for granted when I’m there. I had to leave to make you realize I am more than just a goddamn alarm. You don’t value me Hank, you never do”.

Hank was in the mood to add fuel to fire, “Don’t you understand woman, Time is Money”.

Hank just heard what he had said. He decided to reduce the heat. “Listen, I value you over anybody else. You know that. I was really under pressure in the afternoon. I promise I’d never do that to you again. You mean everything to me. I can’t stop thinking about you even for a second. I wouldn’t know what to do without you!”

The meat was flipped. Seasoned. And served.

As Hank prodded her with a should-we-eat, she blushed out, “It’s about time”.

In the back alley of New Jersey, Gilly was on her third bourbon. It was her second straight night. Five men down, she was about to gulp her sixth. The old tavern in her neighbourhood was home to her. It had seen all the faces and phases of Gilly over the past few years. The intelligent spectacles. The blonde slut. The blue haired hippy. The manipulative confidante. The lonely seeker. The plus one. The beers. The wine. The mojitos. Just like the ageing casks, she had moved to whisky now.

Although, she wasn’t getting better with age. Neither was she degrading. She was standing outside the door of impasse. She did not want turn around and get back into the field. She was equally hesitant to turn the door knob as well. Resigned to fatigue and yearning for pieces to come together, she called for one more glass.

After the first two drinks, Jim usually had conversations with the person seated opposite to him, himself. Even with no one there, no one found this interaction unusual. Because the conversations were so intriguing and interesting, everyone silently searched for themselves. It was one of those beautiful moments that happened every once in a while at the Tavern. Jim used to dig deep and bring out such a heady concoction of words and emotions that everyone wanted a glass for themselves. Some even waited for seconds. The bartender called it the Jim’s Special.

On the rare occasion when Jim called for a second bottle, he often ended up painting a self-portrait. The Tavern had put up many of these portraits on one of its walls. Each echoing a sentiment, a mood, a person that was present in the bar. Jim had just ordered for his second bottle.

Gilly had admired Jim for a long time now. She also fell in love with him once in a while. She had never taken to dark rum though. She wasn’t sure if she could handle it. Sometimes she thought she could take the rum and gulp it down too. But she often excused herself of it. The right time and place stood in between some time ago. Questions on compatibility often went unanswered. But today seemed different. She took the bait of weather change and started making her move towards Jim.

To the bartender’s puzzled look, Gilly replied, “It’s time for the Jim’s Special”.

As she seated herself in front of Jim, she switched the glasses. Jim gave her a disappointed smile and continued painting.

Gilly: “Pour some of me in that. I don’t taste bad you know”.

Jim taking a sip from the whisky replied, “I used to prefer this sour. But that was a different time, a different woman.”

Gilly: “This one lingers long after you’ve taken a sip. Give it time.” Saying that, she returned to the bar.

Jim continued as if the conversation never ended. He was still facing the seat where Gilly was seated.

Jim: “It reminds me of that old wound we once ached for. It’s like every sip has stories inside. Would you like to visit sometime? There are many stories back there.”

Jim: “But that’s what they are – stories. Why don’t you make one now and pretend like you’re telling an old one? Isn’t that what we usually do? Go to the cushion of past and wake dreaming dragons? And all this just to get into bed again with someone new”

Gilly had taken a liking to the rum. As she was twirling her fingers around the rim of the glass, quietly, she was also turning the doorknob.

In the mythological world, Lord Shiva is supposed to have a third eye. But down here on earth, there is a new force who boasts of having the same.

Meet the eyeborg. Meet Neil Harbisson.

Neil was born with achromatopsia, a condition that only allowed him to see in black and white. This monochromatic world seemed fine in his childhood, but later society started encroaching on him. At a time where the world was booming with the likes of Pink Floyd, Bluetooth and Green Peace, Neil was sinking deep in his black sea

Who are Adam Mantandon, Peter Keese and Matias Lizana?

These are the brains behind the brain of Neil Harbisson. Thanks to these individuals Neil started hearing and perceiving colour in sound frequencies. From developing a head mounted colour sensor to fit the technology in a chip, these geniuses aided Neil in becoming a Cyborg – an evolved being. So much so that Neil’s eyeborg can now perceive more colours than the human eye.

When a superhero discovers his superpowers, he realizes he can do wonders. Our superhero was no different. Let me take you through all the extraordinary things Neil has achieved and wants to achieve in his lifetime.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re black or white”

Perhaps the greatest gift Neil has passed on to the human race is the eradication of racial discrimination. According to him, all human beings are a shade of orange. Some light, some dark, but all orange. No one is black or white anymore. As the telecom company once said, “The future’s bright. The future’s Orange”.

Meet the happy side of ‘face the music’

See the different shades of orange. Say hello to your own face. Taking colour to the next level, Neil’s been making music, using colours depicted on one’s face. He also jokes around by saying now your face can give you your own ringtone. In this world of personalization, nothing gets more personal than this.

The colour of the season is F Major

Yes, you read that right. Neil dresses to sound good. And synchronizes his fashion sense to his mood. He even suggests wearing Requiem by Mozart to a funeral saying, “It may look colourful, but will sound sad”. His novel take on fashion will soon be replicated in a fashion collection in Barcelona. Now that sure does sound sweet, doesn’t it?

Every city has its own hues

According to Neil, no city is grey; cities too have their own colour. In a first-of-its-kind perspective, Neil brings a new palette to the cityscapes. With London washed in Gold and Red, Lisbon dons a light yellow and Turquoise. Madrid dazzles in is Amber Terracotta while our Mumbai swims in Celeste Blue. With this refreshing take on cities, you can’t just go and paint the town red anymore.

CYBORGISM – The DIY Model

Like every great idea, Neil’s too is open to all. Using the Do It Yourself approach, Neil is ready to extend his cybernetic technology to anyone who wishes to develop their senses further. Making the software free for all, he guides people to make their own cybernetic equipment. The only difference between other DIY sites and his is that he is taking a disadvantage and turning it into an advantage that supersedes even humans.

Cyborg Foundation – The future sits here

In 2010, Neil started the Cyborg Foundation to help others in need. And the inventions so far have been nothing less than extraordinary. Like one cybernetic attachment, earrings, help detect movement with vibrations. In another, a miniature camera inside a finger can detect colour or take pictures. But possibly the greatest innovation his foundation is working on is happening at Ecuador.

Ecuador – Where no one turns a blind eye

The cyborg foundation is developing an electronic eye for the blind communities. With this tool, blind people can hear words instead of colour, thereby eradicating the need to convert them into brail. With this cybernetic revolution, the blind people of Ecuador will finally see the light of day.

Neil Harbisson – The ambassador of tomorrow

Neil Harbisson is wearing the future on his sleeve. This man with innate humour is turning the page of human beings with his cyborgism. He believes that we can reverse the nature of our senses, where instead of losing its lustre, our senses can develop even further, making us look forward to growing old. His story needs to be told and retold. This is me just playing my part. Because every great idea must be shared.

In the summer of a glorious year, the Mad Men from Madison Avenue had rolled out a campaign for the impressionable youth. In collaboration with Guy Ritchie, “Woodstock, two smokes and a barrel” had become THE global event to attend. Once a cultural phenomenon, Woodstock was redesigned, repackaged and renewed, making it one of the most widely consumed product world over. Drugged and adulterated, the best of the world were seen caught in awkward moments.

Tennis stars were seen attempting to cut open a coconut with a saw while Bud Spencer’s distant cousin, looked on deliriously.

A sozzled Darth Vader had lost his way from Comic Con and was last seen lifting Hitler’s uncle.

Bored and feeling neglected, five friends, Woody Allen, Jerry Seinfeld, Morgan Freeman, Jim Parsons (Sheldon Cooper) and Sylvia Plath decided to take off. Plath was hoping to get Kerouac on board, but he said he’d been On the Road for a long time now and could do with a break. After stealing the Volkswagen Bus from the pretentious Jonas Brothers, the famous five sped across Enid Blyton, who seemed stuck in a déjà vu. “Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing” spat Plath as she took the lyrics of the band and threw it out of the van. Jerry took to the wheel with Morgan sitting in the seat next to him. Woody had begun putting pen to paper when Jim, standing outside the van went on a rant. “Morgan, get up. You’re in my spot.” Morgan Freeman’s Voice: “Son, we all have a spot in the universe. And this became mine when I put my foot inside.” Jim: “I’m sorry Sir, but you are mistaken. History dictates that your race has always come from behind, before it reigned all over the world. You can ask the President if you have any doubts. I, on the other hand, have been in front all my life. School, college, the bathroom. As pattern has it, I always come first”. Morgan regretting the secrecy clause he signed on Bruce Almighty, quietly returned to the back while Jim had his spot. As Jerry began driving, we hear his monologue in the background, “This is a 1950 Volkswagen Bus. Brushed in cobalt blue, this beauty has a 1950 rear engine, a rare sight in today’s world. Today my guests are a bunch of famous people from different eras. The VW Bus has enough space for multiple egos too. I’m Jerry Seinfeld, and this is Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee”. At this juncture Morgan got offended. In his classic Morgan Freeman voice, he said, “Mr. Seinfeld, the entire world knows my voice and act stands for inspiration, cool gadgets and serious drama. I even play a President sometime. I think you should revisit your statement.” After an unusual silence Woody butted in, “I could do with coffee. So would this tall pole with white hair. And that ergonomic robot seated next to you. How about you sweetheart, Sylvia, do you mind some coffee?” After a puzzled look from Sylvia, they all stepped down for a cup of coffee.

Jerry: “Can we get some coffee. Please”? To that the waitress went, “How would you like that? With milk? Cream? Americano? Latte? Cappuccino? Macchiato? French Press?” At this point, Jerry stood on the table and got into his act. “Have you ever tried ordering for coffee at a bistro? It is the most difficult thing to make. Do I add sugar? White? Brown? Do I add water? Milk? It’s like trying to solve some world crisis. And if I say I want milk, the looks people give. Oh he’s not a puritan. He’s pretentious. He just wants to look cool. He is not American enoughhhh. Is it too much to ask for milk in the coffee? It’s not like you have to milk the cow yourself, you know!” When the tape of laughter track began to fade away, Jerry stepped down. In the meanwhile, on the other table Woody was trying to woo Sylvia Plath. Sylvia was lost in her daze. “If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell. I’ll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days”. Woody took in those words and expressed an epiphany he had just had. “That does sound beautiful. A gone era meeting today’s in between. At midnight. Maybe in Paris. Would you come with me to the Golden Age baby? You can play yourself. Neurotic. Preoccupied. Sexy. What do you say? “. Ignoring the invitation, she continued sipping her coffee.
After a rather strange scene at the coffee shop, they all got back in the VW bus and continued their journey.

They saw two funny people asking for a lift.

Jim: “Don’t stop the car. I’m still disappointed with George Lucas for The Phantom Menace.” Jerry: But what was wrong with Spielberg? Jim: “He’s friends with Michael Bay. That cannot be excused or forgiven.” Woody was twitching by now. “Morgan, we need some weed. Do any of your brothers live around?”. Furious at the question, Morgan retaliated, “I don’t come from Boston Mr. Allen. Neither am I poor. I may look so, but I’m filthy rich.” Desperate to act on his Comedian instinct, Jerry blurted out, “Sing a rap song Morgan, will ya? Ha ha ha”. Jim too managed a guffaw, “Oh clever, playing on the implications of colour and music and finding the humour in its euphemism. Heh!”. Plath was getting irritated now with this incessant banter. Thoughts of ending her life were stronger than ever. Jerry at this juncture informed all that he has a friend in Austin, Texas. “My friend, Lance Armstrong used to be a cyclist. Now he’s a peddler. Ha ha ha. See what I did there?” Jim looking lost in the herd of laughter sheepishly asked, “See what? What did you do there?”
The car came to a screeching halt. Batman was standing there enjoying a cigar. Jim excitedly jumped in his seat. While Batman walked towards the car, Morgan, feeling embarrassed, tried to hide behind Woody. Batman: “Lucius, why are you hiding?” Morgan: “What can I do for you Mr. Wayne?”. Batman: “The Tumbler’s not starting. Can you just check it for me?” Morgan stepped out of the car and bid goodbye to his friends. Jerry: “Did we just have Batman’s mechanic with us all this while?”
As they made their way towards Texas, they saw Jesus Christ hanging on a hoarding of Apple Ipod. Looking at that Plath got really excited. “Death indeed looks beautiful. Stop the car; I want to see it closely”. Jerry drove past saying “It’s Mel Gibson. He wants to come on my show. I think he’s trying too hard”.
Woody: “Jerry, can you pull over for two minutes, I want to say hi to my friend Xzibit.”Jerry: You have a friend called Xzibit? Jim: “Is he a mathematician?” All stepped out and went to use the bathroom to freshen up.

Waiting for the others, Plath and Woody were sharing a smoke. “Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call”, Plath whiffed out. Woody took a long drag, “Do you know there are worse things in life than death. Have you ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman?” Angry at another attempt to woo her, Plath warned him, “If you ever think you’d be able to sleep with me, it would be over my dead body”. Woody, “Death seems like a toothbrush to you. It’s like you can’t live without it.”
By the time all were back, the VW bus was looking outrageously jazzy. Xzibit: “Yo dawg, since you like to be funny, we installed a mike in your boot. And Jerry, since you always love an audience, we installed a camera with wi-fi, so you can connect with all your fans. We coloured your car black and added these mad fire symbols. And this beauty now comes with 24 speakers, so your entertainment can go wherever you go. Jerry, we just Pimped Your Ride.”

Outraged by the horror, Jerry warned Woody never to stop again for anything. And they drove ahead. As the sun set on them, Chainsaw Wielding Killer was standing, waiting for his latest prey. As he came and growled at their car, no one seemed scared or interested. After all, they had had a pretty long day. Jerry: “Oh come on, one more man lost his way from Comic Con. I am done with these cheap thrills”. Plath: “Kill me. Kill me.” Jim: “I was born and raised in Texas. And I am in no mood for pranks sir. So if you’re done here, we can move along.” Plath: “Kill me. Kill me.” Woody: “Not my genre. I pass”.
Dejected at no one being scared, he took his chainsaw and killed himself. Plath looked rather disappointed as they drove past in the darkness.
Fade to black.
Cut to Drew Carrey: Welcome to Whose Line Is It Anyway, where everything is made up and the points don’t matter.

The Hot SummerHe was clean-shaven for a while. Character filtered down to the not so well-defined jaw line. Integrity had begun to rust in his razor. As the sun made his visits more frequent, the stubble woke up from its slumber. Donning a nonchalant face Mach ventured to a bar after months. The four-day beard came with its share of invitations. They came for Mr. Playful. He was going for Mr. Cool. Caught between acquired taste and required pleasure, he played the waiting game. Two weeks and nearly savaged, Mach took the swagger to the bar again. He wanted to be barbaric with that rebound someone. The head of the beer drowning deep in his nearly savaged look brought out the lifeguards to give some mouth to mouth. As he readied to go dirty, they mistook him for being gentlemanly. As acquired taste walked into the room, required pleasure took the long walk home. Six more weeks of waiting. By now macho, dirty, biker, metal head had all taken refuge in his beard. Twisting, twirling and wearing a sea of arrogance, he made a dramatic entrance at the bar again. Two weeks and nine women down, this was the road trip he was waiting for. The beard was at its all-time length. Just then a broad walked in with all the haughtier she could muster. One look and the heroic barbarian caved in. She had one advantage – She was hungrier. The beard fell short. She ate him like leftover meat. Devoured and wanting to be chewed off, Mach was losing his edge. The storm had taken the sun out. Sheepishly, the razor stepped out of the closet.

The Great Fall Aristocracy was a class Mach had never been to. Struggling for status, he’d always been stuck somewhere in middle class. Wearing a thin line, he walked into a wine club in search for red. Outcast stared at him in the face. Fine locks of gold turned him down. In this heap of sour grapes, he walked out unfermented. Four weeks and a handlebar later, he walked into a library of stiff upper lips. This time around he wanted to read a dream. Flipping through thousands of pages, a pair of bespectacled beauty caught his eye on page 46. Brown hair swirled down to her shoulders. A dress that slipped down further. She looked expensive. Before she could turn this rag to riches, she quoted a price. Although the price was high, he felt cheap. Disgruntled, he dragged his pride out and walked down the road of shame. Cold feet and a joint later, Mach met the razor again.

The Long WinterLong hair. The ultimate rock star. The heart-throb. The majestic lover. These were some of the things Mach had longed for. Three years. That’s what he had decided to give himself. He was in his early 40s. It was never or now. For a year he waited for his turn. To woo. To charm. To make love. To be loved. Adored. To be the one name they squealed. And when his day arrived, the day carried on for months. He was having whomsoever, wherever, however. He would turn them down. Turn them over. Turn them into whatever he wanted. And they happily obliged. As his hair continued to grow, so did the women. Mid-life crisis was a rented apartment he had long vacated. He went for golden locks. Brown flocks. Black beauties. Free flowing hair he loved. And made love to. By the time the third winter came along, he missed the chase. He wanted someone to make it tough for him. As snow trickled down from the heaven above, a guardian devil rose from hell below. Cai. That’s what they called her. Known to drink up many a soul, she was looking to quench her thirst by drinking away someone else’s. She was the skin of sin. From head to toe. Mach first caught her glance when she waltzed away through the sea of women around him. Mach’s throat went dry. She had that effect. Black eyes. Slender body. Big lips. Cai was an ideal to be strived towards. Sharp. Witty. Manipulative. And beautiful. For Mach, she was all the seasons behind him. She was the stiff upper-lipped. She was the lifeguard from the bar. That girl from the library. She was red. And white. She made the grapes sour. She was the two winters he had wasted. This was love the way he had never imagined. Uncompromising. Humiliating. Sacrificial goat-like. Cai was everything Mach was wanting in a woman. Everything Mach was wanting in himself. Twisted pleasures locked in a braid. Dark fantasies rolled in a bun. He left what was his for the taking and went after what could never be his – Cai. One hair swept back Thursday, she ripped his soul apart. Conversation. Books. Sex. Alcohol. And a razor. She snatched his happiness. Took those golden brown locks of his and fed it to her cat. Seventeen nights later, satiated, she moved on.

The New SpringThe fifth spring was here with the sun rising high. Mach was wearing make-up and a wig rolled back in a bun. He opened his dresser to look for different shades of pink. He went for Coral. Kissing the mirror, he winked and stepped out of his apartment. His customer was late. He looked in his pocket mirror one last time. As the car arrived, lusty eyes looked back at him from the window. Leaning towards the window, Mach went, “Hi, I’m Cai. And I’m about to turn your world upside down”.

“Dolores, I can’t believe that it’s just been three weeks since we’ve been seeing each other. I’ve been with my share of women, but you’re one of a kind. I guess because you don’t try hard. You don’t lead me on; neither do you let me go. You and I are like Lego bricks”.

Melina kept that piece of paper down. Removed her glasses. Untied her hair and holding that pensive look, glanced at Sean sitting near the window with his typewriter. “Sean, baby, I like where you’re going with this chapter. I mean there’s something there. But why does it have to be a semblance of something vague? Shouldn’t Gareth be sure by now? I mean he’s got to have figured it out by now. How can he always fall for someone intriguing? Don’t you see a pattern here? And why is he Gareth. Can’t he be Karl? Karl has a sense of mystique around him. Baby? Are you even listening sweetheart?”

After an unusually long stare, Sean began typing.

“Carla on the other hand did not approve of where Gareth was heading. She never liked a new woman taking over his life. She had put in a lot of effort to be the second best. She’d coloured her hair red, tangerine, electric blue, black and every other shade of lust. She had earned her divided attention. She loved being the emergency booty call. But this new sea of women was creating a ripple that made her uncomfortable. She wished Gareth could just stay put with his decision. She was getting bored of changing her hair colour. She was getting used to the natural whites.”

Sean punched in the last key and went to change his look. He did that while writing. His wife thought he was getting into character. The truth was he was just washing them off from his mind. Wearing a crisp orange shirt and white underwear, he walked back into the room. His wife was getting dirty with Monica, her bestie from college, who had just walked in consumed from the air travel. As they were licking off the honey from each other’s body, he returned to his typewriter.

“Carla met Dolores at the Ice Cream parlour. Dolores was devouring her Raspberry when Carla walked in. She ordered her usual chocolate vanilla and sat right opposite Dolores. Carla wanted to have the upper hand. She twirled her tongue. Gnawed at the cone. Her lips trying to pucker her way to the bottom. Dolores meanwhile was just gulping her way through the cone, trying to get there first. Before they could decide, Gareth walked in with Susie – a 21 year old, his 22nd conquest. She was beautiful. Sexy. But blind. Gareth wanted to get her into a world of colour. At that moment, Dolores did not exist. Carla was not there. The only thing on his mind was Susie and colour. He smeared her face with every flavour, telling her how pale it looked in front of her. And how tasteless the world is in comparison to her skin. Dolores had tears in her eyes. Carla had pistachio ice cream all over her hands. Her hands in her hair, trying desperately to turn them green.”

Sean punched in that last word. Wore his sunglasses and began dancing to an Outkast classic – Hey Ya as his wife and her bestie squealed in pleasure.

So a still from Bejoy Nambiar’s David inspired me to write this fictional piece.

This is not an excerpt from the movie, just a figment of my imagination.

The purpose of this post is not to promote/demote David the film.

It’s just a story of what I make of the movie still.

THIS PICTURE. THAT STORY.

The time had passed. The rain had poured. Colour had walked away from the room. It was a desaturated Saturday night. Nysa was drawing grey shades from her mind and sketching them on paper. After all these years, a pen was her only faithful partner.

“Joy decided to stay back on the porch. It was too tired to move into another rented relationship. So I packed hope in my bags and left some room for smiles too. “ Nysa didn’t like the remorse in her writing. And the fact that she always tried to fit in quarter smiles. The fact that all her writing stemmed from self-reflection. She never wanted to be an open book, but she always wanted to be read. In one way or the other.

She left her words aside and walked towards the window, tying her emotions in a braid. It was her idea of hiding pain under the disguise of desire. She found comfort in conflict, even if she was tangled herself. She let out a knowing smile of disdain, something she did privately.

She lit a cigarette, put on her glasses and picked up the piece of paper she had just written on. Her words followed the wisps of smoke as she began to chronicle her present past. “I don’t know what I saw in David. I guess it was the idea of a man which was never seen or heard before. Rash, unstable, unforgiving, passionate, hard, brutal. Everything that was wrong in the world was right inside him. I’ve been an object of desire for many, but with him, I get to be the subject of desire. Even if for a short while, isn’t that something worth being?”, she left the cigarette burning in the ashtray. Removing her glasses, she let her thoughts be as they were, incinerating on a piece of paper.

She graced towards the mirror to be ready for him. It would be dawn anytime now, David would be home any minute now. The night had sucked her in its mood and she did not want to rebel against it. Not tonight. Untying her emotions, she let her hair flow free of every doubt. She readied her eyes with black and dressed her nose in gold. She returned to the piece of paper and folded it away in a book she never read. Sipping the night away, she walked to the porch and awaited joy to come to her doorstep. The car thundered its way through the gate. Her past compelled her to stay at the porch, but she wanted to bring it home. She was determined not to make this one a rented relationship. She’d paid her dues. As she walked into the house, she could hear his footsteps. She slowed down and stood near the window. Her moment was waiting. As she closed her eyes, she could feel warmth wrapping itself around her body. His lips kissed her sultry neck. At that moment, hope and smiles climbed out of her bag and took shelter in her face. She thought to herself, “Joy, we meet again”.

She was waiting to read. Something of consequence. Or inconsequence. Anything she could hold onto. She was bored. Of everything. Job. Boys. Porn. Evenings. Alcohol. It wasn’t being messed up that was troubling her. It was the pattern. Same old moves. Same old motives. The boys changed. But everything else remained the same. She’d done up her hair. He liked it. And she liked the fact that there was nothing more to that. So she obliged. Happily to his every request. She had found a new love in quarter smiles. They did not do much, but enough to make it worth it. They had words before. Words swam on the rim of their glasses. They sat perched on lips. They were never on the tip of their tongues. They had a thing for the unspoken kind. They never found meaning in words. Just joy. In the magical world it could transcend them to. A fictional delight, she used to call it. He had promised he’d write. She was waiting to read.

He was waiting to write. To get home and put mind to paper. Writing had become a thing of the past. He loved words and its twisted pleasures. His passion and the people associated with it only had a reminiscing quality to them now. He made them cry. Made love to them. Made them laugh. Words and women went hand in hand. But she was different. She had sneaked up on him in her quiet ways. She never expressed her desire to be with him. Neither portray being charmed. Maybe that was her move, or she being herself. It had its effect on him. It stayed with him. And every afterthought deserved respect. So he offered it in his own ways, through words or silent appearances in her digital world. Some days, he saw an old friend in her. Other days he saw his lover. He loved to see her hair tied. Twisted, rolled, swept. The fact that she had a fascination in this routine worked well for them. Through a series of conversations and worded self-reflections, they found a soul in each other. Tainted. Bruised. Yet warm, full of hope. This felt real for the first time. He couldn’t believe that a few words could hold two people together for years. He missed her. He missed writing. He missed someone wanting to read his writing. He wanted someone to read. Someone who knows. He left his work and got into a cab. He was waiting to write.